The American
by LifesVictory
Summary: Post-HLV. Molly, John, and Sherlock deal with the aftermath of Magnussen's murder and its consequences. Their strained relationship approach the breaking-point, and trust has ceased to be an affordable luxury between any of them. Especially when their deadliest threat from beyond the grave arrives in the form of an unassuming office temp working for Molly at St. Bart's. SH/MH/JW/OC
1. Chapter 1

_**Author's Note: I do not own BBC's 'Sherlock' nor am I affiliated with the show in any way. Just a fan, like the rest of us. **_

**Post 'His Last Vow'** : Sherlock/Molly, Sherlock/John, OC.

* * *

**The American  
**A Sherlock Holmes FanFiction Original

**Chapter One. **Introductions.

**London. Present Day.**

Dr. Hooper drops a messy stack of medical files onto my desk and smiles apologetically.

"I know, I know it's late," she says, adjusting her lab coat, "just a few more need sorting and then I promise I'll let you go. Do you mind terribly?"

"It's fine. Really," I assure her, staving off a yawn. "Not like I have anywhere else to be."

"You don't?" she asks. "On a Friday night?"

"Is it Friday?"

"Oh, God. You're starting to sound like me, Jo," sighs Dr. Hooper. "I hope I'm not rubbing off on you."

I look closely at Dr. Hooper and pray that nothing in my expression betrays how sorry I feel for her most days. I only signed on to St. Bart's a few weeks ago as an office temp, but she's pretty easy to read. Mid-thirties, smart, nervous, isolated. Probably wants children. I heard someone, a police inspector I think, mention that she'd recently had an engagement called off for some unknown reason. Very recently, I'd say, judging by the state of her hair and scrubbed, unpainted face. I think she looks better without the makeup, anyway.

The thing I like most about Dr. Molly Hooper, however, is the flash of anger that spasms across her features from time to time. This anger will manifest itself in manhandling a corpse too roughly or dealing with her cop friends at a screaming pitch. It's not "spurned woman" rage - I know plenty about that and could identify it if I saw it. No, this is general, exasperated, fed-up rage at life and the idiots who strut and fret through it.

Yeah. I get that.

It's kind of why I was keen to accept a temp position behind a desk at the morgue. In London. When I'm very obviously from the States.

"What about you, Dr. Hooper? Anything fun lined up for tonight?" I offer and she grins.

"Well, yes, actually, thanks for asking," she replies in a rush, "I'm heading to the American Film Festival showing in the Strand with a few girlfriends-"

"Girlfriends?" I repeat dubiously before I can stop myself.

"Colleagues, then," she amends, gritting her teeth. "They're playing _Casablanca_. It's one of my favorites."

_Of course it is_, I think as I neatly reorganize the files on my desk. "Sounds fun!"

Dr. Hooper hesitates, drumming her fingertips along the clipboard in her arms. "Do you - sorry - would you like to come along? If it's something you'd be interested in, that is. Old black- and-white movies aren't everyone's cup of tea, I understand, especially not for you young people."

For a second, I'm not sure whether or not she's hitting on me, maybe switching to the other side of the playing field for a change of scenery. She sways left to right on the heels of her rubber clogs, head cocked to the side in a way that makes her seem much younger. Does she think I'm a lesbian? Probably. It's the hair: it's the short, badly cropped hair. My mother warned me about this kind of thing when I buzzed it a few months ago. I hate when she's right.

But, no, I'm wrong. Being silly and self-narrating. I'm sure of my mistake when we're distracted by the sound of heavy metal doors swinging open and the detective who looks exactly like her ex- fiancé breezes into the foyer. Dr. Hooper colors and teeters back onto her feet clumsily.

"Sherlock! What are you-"

"I need to see the body of the man you had this morning. Bus accident. It was in all the papers?"

He wears that melodramatic trench coat and scarf like always. I wonder, not for the first time, when he gets it dry-cleaned, whether he sleeps in it at night. I've never seen him without it, even in the heat.

"Does this have to do with, em, you-know-who?" Dr. Hooper asks in a whisper. It's not necessary. After the TV-stunt last week, even a dumb Yankee like me has heard of the Moriarty - turned - Lazarus fiasco.

"No. It's unrelated," replies Mr. Holmes. He waits.

"Is this for another case?"

"Unofficially. Something in the papers it struck me. I'm certain it was a murder."

"You think the bus accident was a murder," she repeats.

"Did I stutter?"

"Sherlock, I thought you'd have, ah, more pressing matters at hand..."

"Hah. Murder by bus," I snort, filing. "Good one."

I must have done that thing where I'm almost positive I've thought something in my head but actually have spoken it aloud. I must've, because they're both staring at me like I sneezed into their black pudding or something.

"Excuse me?" Mr. Holmes says at me.

"Nothing. Sorry, never mind," I mutter.

Sherlock Holmes looks from my face to Dr. Hoopers and then points at me like a thing on the wall.

"What is this?" he demands.

"_This_? Sherlock, please. This is Johanna Spark, my assistant," says Dr. Hooper defensively. She places a hand on my shoulder. "You've met."

"No."

He squints at me, eyes skittering up and down my body, but I know better than to take this as flirtation. He's doing that psycho-observational scrutiny thing. Probably deducing that my great-grandmother died of cancer or that I once put peanut butter on the inside of my thigh to get the dog to lick it off, just to see what it would feel like.

I grin at that memory. God, I used to be a freak in high school.

"It's Jo, not Johanna," I correct Dr. Hooper gently. She squeezes my shoulder in apology, and I stick out my hand for Mr. Holmes to shake. We've done this dance at least ten times already. "Nice to meet you again."

He shakes. "American."

"Yeah. The last couple of times you got that before I opened my mouth. Must be off your game today," I tell him. I have a bad habit of poking sleeping dragons, though I doubt this one ever really slumbers.

Mr. Holmes' eyes narrow. But he's back to Dr. Hooper. "Molly. The body. Please?"

She eyes me nervously. I've seen her do this not-quite-kosher-favor for the detective dozens of times in my weeks here, but she's not sure whether she trusts me to keep the secret. I don't blame her. It usually takes people a couple of years to get there. Which is funny, because Sherlock they trust immediately and it's always a mistake. I happen to think I'm quite trustworthy.

"We were just on our way out, I'm afraid," Dr. Hooper lies.

He'll see through it.

"No, you weren't."

_No, we weren't_. Mr. Holmes eyes the stack of files waiting for me, perfectly aware that I'm not permitted to sit here at St. Bart's unattended. Dr. Hooper glares at Mr. Holmes, keeping her eyes on him as she says, "We'll be just a minute, Jo. Hold down the fort, would you?"

"She'll be fine. Let's go."

Together, they move towards the entrance to the lab. Dr. Hooper fidgets with her hair. "I'm 100% certain your brother didn't bring you out of exile to have you snoop around on cases that don't involve_ you-know-who_."

"Then we'll have to keep this between us, won't we, Molly?" Mr. Holmes says in a deep, seductive voice. I can feel the temperature of the chilly office foyer rise several degrees with the heat of Dr. Hooper's blush.

"Slimy bastard,"I mutter, and I see Mr. Holmes glance over his shoulder in my direction. Stupid echoey morgue.

Once they've disappeared, I speed through the file work, removing extraneous paperwork and sorting Dr. Hooper's notes in the proper order. I stamp the "St. Bartholomew" seal and address where it needs to be stamped - incredibly tedious work - and at last prop up my feet to read through her analyses of each of the deceased.

Like macabre little short stories, they are. Even the boring ones. And something about Dr. Hooper's expressive, compassionate hand gives significance and dignity to their causes of death, too. Reading them, I start to realize that she makes little deductions of her own, like Mr. Grumpyface FancyCoat.

For example:

_**Marion Llewys, 69.** Cause of death: lung cancer. Decreased function and tar build- up in the lung cavities suggest an increased pattern of smoking, although the cancer diagnosis must have been delivered several years ago, judging by the deterioration of vital cells and dating of existing malignant tumors. Ms. Llewys was unmarried, but carried and birthed at least two children. There was no surviving the vigorous strain of cancer that took her, and so cigarettes must have seemed like a "why-the-bloody- hell not" option for her. No family members claimed the body of Ms. Llewys after my autopsy, leading me to believe she'd either been long estranged from the two previously mentioned children, or she gave them up to the system at their birth. Incredible bone structure in her face - she must have been quite a beauty. I made sure to keep her that way upon the conclusion of my work, and I like to think of her sleeping peacefully preserved under the tilled earth of the state cemetery._

There was a scribbled-in note added after the fact to this report: _Apparently, the City chose to cremate the body of Ms. Llewys instead of interring her. Space is limited in the cemetery. So, there goes that fairy tale._

Poor Dr. Hooper.

Another:

_**Davey McDougal, 12**. Cause of death: strangulation, exsanguination. Upon examination of the body, I lost count of the pin-sized stab wounds inflicted. I got up to fifty-three and stopped. Amongst these wounds, I found innumerable scars matching the same circumference and depth of the fresher wounds, suggesting a history of stabbing throughout Davey's life. The weapon must have been at least twenty centimeters in length, pointed like a meat thermometer or woodworking awl. These wounds were not very deep; the intention quite simply was to cause the greatest amount of pain with the least amount of physical detriment. In other words, Davey's attacker wanted him to suffer, but to stay alive to suffer again. Davey took things into his own hands. Petechial bruising around his throat suggests hanging, but Davey's neck and spine were unbroken so he strangled to death. Which would have taken time, several minutes at least. Plenty of opportunity to think twice or release himself. Davey must have wanted death very much._

Another note:_ This case remains unsolved by the detectives at Scotland Yard. Have repeatedly pushed for recommending this case to the work of certain private consulting detectives, but the police refuse. No surprise there. _

I assume she means Mr. Holmes. I don't know why she doesn't push the case into his hands without the permission of the police. From the work I've seen her do with him, bending the rules doesn't seem to prevent much in the way of personal vendettas. Maybe she tried. Maybe he refused.

I have overheard Dr. Hooper muttering to herself on the other side of the lab doors, or I've caught her doing it when delivering coffee or tea or food as I volunteer to do some days. But I was wrong: she wasn't talking to herself, she was talking to _them_.

I am reaching for another file to read when I hear the elevator at the other end of the hall begin to stir. Someone has called for it on a lower floor. I frown and check my watch; it's almost ten o'clock at night on Friday. Nobody should be arriving unannounced and I am quite sure Dr. Hooper wasn't expecting anyone. She was on her way out.

Slowly I ease my feet off of the desk and place them noiselessly onto the floor. I wear soft-soled boots that allow me to pad across the most resonant of surfaces without a sound; it's a past-time of mine, sneaking up on people and standing close in their personal space without them realizing anyone has intruded upon it. There's a reason my mother feared I'd grow up to be a criminal one day.

The elevator stops on the ground floor. By the time it begins its climb up the floors towards us, I am standing in the middle of the hallway, square to the doors of the elevator, with my fingertips hovering motionlessly above my belt. Tucked securely into the waistband of my jeans is a slender, plexiglass knife I had custom-made to avoid setting off the metal detectors that the British government seems to have installed into every public institution across the country. As soon as those doors slide open, I can have this knife sailing through the air and lodged into the heart of whoever it is before they realize what happened to them.

One beat of recognition, that's all I'll have.

A millisecond to determine whether the intruder is friend or foe and then I let the blade fly.

The elevator stops at our floor; the door pulls away from the car and my fingers close around the hilt of the dagger. Our eyes meet, and I smile. I have no idea who this man is and I am fairly certain I see the outline of a gun in his blazer pocket_. Let it fly_, I think, and I see the man's facial expressions twist as he realizes I am about to kill him.

The knife is at my ear, pulled back to gain potential energy, when the lab doors behind me bang open and I spin around. Reflexively, I feel my hand change targets, sense the muscles as they scream for me to release the dagger in the opposite direction, in the direction of the surprise attacker. I let the thing clatter to the floor because I can't control my hand enough to force it back into my waistband.

A second's more delay, and it would have been lodged into the very heart of Dr. Molly Hooper.

"John!" she cries, looking past me. My almost-murder has gone unnoticed. By her, at least. Mr. Holmes's gaze has settled like a two-ton weight onto my head as I bend to the ground to collect the blade. I'd stepped onto it immediately to cover what I'd held. I wonder if I was fast enough to evade him. I doubt it, and I'm pretty damn fast.

I collect myself, taking my time on the floor as Dr. Hooper hurries past me towards the elevator. I see the man I nearly executed step out of the elevator, eying me suspiciously. His stare isn't as heavy as Mr. Holmes's but it's no less piercing. In fact, they feel surprisingly similar, their gazes. I wonder why.

Standing up and brushing off my black jeans, I watch Dr. Hooper gather "John" into an embrace, chattering with him breathlessly. Mr. Holmes stands very close to me, just over my shoulder. I can feel him breathing. Calculating. His hands are clasped behind his back, collar popped up to his cheekbones. Ugh. This guy is a freak. I wonder what it would feel like to slide a knife between his ribs.

"Not nearly as gratifying as you might hope," he whispers into my ear and the shaved hairs on the back of my neck bristle. I shiver involuntarily.

I don't bother faking ignorance. Dr. Hooper and her friend are making their way towards us, footsteps slapping against the concrete floor. Instead, I shift backwards and purposefully land my heel onto the toe of his supple, leather shoes. Leather doesn't do a damned bit of good in protecting your foot if a horse tries to break it. And I'm denser than I look.

Mr. Holmes lets out a stifled groan and I try very hard (and fail) not to smile. But they're almost at us, so I quickly dart to the sidelines and let the grown-ups chat.

"Hello, John," Mr. Holmes says coldly. He extends his hand to the stranger and they shake, but I can tell by the stranger's expression that there's something off about this interaction. "How's Mary?"

"How's Mary?" the stranger - John - repeats. "How's Mary? That's your opening line after avoiding me for two weeks since Mycroft let you off his leash? Sherlock, what's the matter with you?"

"What gave you the impression that he's let me off his leash?" asks Mr. Holmes.

"The fact that you're here snooping around cases that aren't the one case you've been instructed to snoop into is a pretty clear indicator," Dr. Hooper inserts with a crooked grin. "I'm surprised your brother's men haven't come around to collect you yet."

"No one asked your opinion, Molly, do keep quiet," he snaps without looking at her. His penetrating glare is entirely focused upon this stout, blondish guy who holds himself at a soldier's attention. When he shifts and the fabric of his blazer rustles, I can see that I was correct about the concealed weapon. Definitely military.

"Easy, Sherlock. We're just concerned about you, that's all. No need to be cross with Molly for calling me -"

"_You_ called him?" Dr. Holmes bellows, swooping towards Dr. Hooper. My fingers flick up to my belt again. "When? When did you - what were you thinking?"

His fingers wrap around Dr. Hooper's thin shoulders and I'm at my limit. I've got absolutely no tolerance for big strong men who scare the shit out of women to prove a point. The muscles in my body are tense and ready to react, but I have very few moves available to me. Any attempt to disable and disorient Mr. Holmes would quite obviously reveal my training and land me in hot water. I'm quite enjoying the obscurity of my position at St. Batholomew's and I have no intention of jeopardizing it. But John's eyes are glued to my face and I think maybe I've already blown my cover.

"Why don't you let her go, Mr. Holmes?" I say quietly, head bowed. He doesn't release her but he puts his eyes on me.

Dr. Hooper laughs and says, "Oh, don't fret, Jo. He's harmless. Sherlock would never hurt me."

"I wouldn't be too sure about that," I mutter.

"I'm sorry, who are you?" John interrupts as he takes a step towards me.

"Johanna - sorry,_ Jo_ - Spark, my assistant," Dr. Hooper answers. She has a habit of making introductions for me, like I'm a pet she's not allowed to keep. "Jo, this is Dr. John Watson, a very dear friend and colleague of mine."

"Pleased to meet you," I grit out, careful to keep my features relaxed even though as we shake hands we're both aware that I may or may not have been seconds from murdering him just a moment ago.

"Likewise," he replies. He's got nervous, searching eyes that scan me like Mr. Holmes did, but less effectively. They're desperate for more information, more clues that only Mr. Holmes can see, but I can see the desperation comes from a need to protect his men (including Dr. Hooper) and I think maybe it's a good thing I didn't kill him. "I'm glad you texted me, Molly. If this got into the papers, Sherlock, you'd be as good as hanged."

I look at Mr. Holmes, expecting a quick retort, but he's silent. Brooding. Sullen.

"You're a convicted murderer, Sherlock!" continues Dr. Watson insistently. "The only reason you're not behind bars is that Mycroft convinced the government of your necessity to solving this case. And now you've put Molly and myself in danger by showing up here at all. For being such a brilliant man, Sherlock, you can be an incredibly thoughtless ass sometimes."

As Dr. Watson has been lecturing, I see Dr. Hooper's eyes dart towards me anxiously. I'm being let in on a huge majority of a secret she doesn't want me to know. I knew already, of course, but the cover has been blown. I try to catch her gaze, to return it with an assurance that I'll keep my silence.

Mr. Holmes has yet to reply, which, I assume, is odd for him. The two men glare at each other, waiting for one or the other to break, but they're in gridlock.

"Johanna!" Dr. Hooper cries suddenly, and we all jump. "It's so very late. I've kept you way beyond the bounds of human decency. You, of course, are free to go, dear. Have a lovely weekend."

I look at the three of them. "What about your film screening? What about Casablanca?"

"Another time, another time," she answers hurriedly.

Dr. Watson glances at her, concerned. "Are we keeping you, Molly? I wish you would have said something. Sherlock and I are more than capable of bickering like schoolchildren on our own time," he says. I smirk.

"No, no, it's fine. It's - why don't you take off, Johanna? I'm going to finish up here and - "

"I thought," I interrupt, "I thought I might...come along with you, to the screening." My insides are churning. I absolutely detest old movies. "Take you up on your offer, if it still stands?"

It's a weird sensation when all the people in a room are each speaking in code, trying to send messages under their words, hoping the right people will receive them and the wrong people won't. I don't know anything about Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson. I don't know about their relationship with Dr. Hooper beyond a certain point. But I know something's going on here and I'm not absolutely certain she's safe left alone with them. Mr. Holmes is a brilliant man, I'll give him that, but he's neither safe, stable, nor trustworthy. But the way his eyes are shooting murder at Dr. Watson, I get the feeling Dr. Hooper's not the one in the most danger.

"Right, yes of course, I did invite you..." Dr. Hooper says breathlessly. "Right," she's stalling, "right. Why don't you wait for me downstairs? I just need to have a chat with the boys."

"I'll escort you," Mr. Holmes inserts.

We freeze.

"Sherlock? I think Molly meant to include you," Dr. Watson says.

Mr. Holmes crosses behind me to my desk and hooks my jacket onto his finger. He extends the arm to me, keeping as much distance between our bodies as possible, and dangles the coat in front of my nose. I take it.

"I'm sure she'll catch me up later," he allows as I put on my coat. "St. Bart's this late at night can be a dangerous place. I wouldn't want Miss Spark left defenseless and alone in the lobby of the hospital."

His eyes flick pointedly over my concealed blade. I can't help smirking. He's got a sense of humor, I'll give him that.

Finally, Dr. Hooper breaks the silence. "I'll be right down, Johanna. Sorry about this. They're a bit of a melodramatic bunch, you have to understand."

"This way," Mr. Holmes barks and sweeps past me towards the elevator as though I don't know every square inch of the building already. I have no choice but to follow him, straining to hear the bits of muttered conversation that starts up behind me. Mr. Holmes punches the elevator call button and angles his head so that he can watch Drs. Hooper and Watson with his peripheral vision.

"You guys are weird as shit," I say very quietly, avoiding echoes.

"And you're a trained killer," he replies equally quietly as the elevator doors slide open. "What a merry band of brothers are we." 


	2. Chapter 2

**The American - continued. **

**_Author's Note:_**_**Thanks for reading and responding to this work! I'm looking forward to developing this story and sharing it with you guys. **_

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**Chapter Two**

The elevator ride to the ground floor of St. Bart's is silent. No surprise there. Mr. Holmes and I stand motionless as the car slides down the three stories from Dr. Hooper's lab to the street and I realize I'm feeling uncharacteristically anxious. I do not underestimate Mr. Holmes.

Here are the things of which I am aware:

I am smart. He is smarter.  
I am fast. He's faster.  
I have secrets. He'll figure them out.

But here is another thing of which he's not aware:

I'm pretty damn good at finding out secrets myself. And he's reeking with them.

When the car jostles to a stop on the ground floor and the door pulls away, I wait for him to make the first move. He doesn't, which results in both of us standing stock still staring at the glass doors across the front lobby to the street beyond.

"Well, then," I say without stepping forward, "thanks for the escort. It's been magical."

He doesn't respond. I wait a few more moments, and then exhale sharply, propping my hands onto my hips. I see Mr. Holmes's eyes shoot to my the fingertips of my right hand where they rest perilously close to my knife, and I grin. "Not the slightest bit paranoid, are we?"

"One can never be too cautious with killers," he answers in a clipped tone.

"Oh, come on, Mr. Holmes. I'm not here to kill anybody. I'm military, that's all." I'm not. "It's in my blood to react a certain way...to certain threats," I say boldly.

"Just back from tour?"

I consider, then reply, "No."

The trick, I think, with this man is not to lie. To speak in versions of the truth without giving anything away. Lying reveals so much more than the truth about a person. It's way deadlier than we give it credit.

"Why the morgue?"

"It's quiet."

"You enjoy the quiet?" he counters.

No, I hate it, I think. "I needed it. Helps me to appreciate the noise when I go back out there."

I wait for another bout of interrogation, but it doesn't come. I think I'm off the hook. I step forward to exit the elevator car, but Sherlock Holmes sidesteps me and plants himself between me and my escape. He stands inches away from me. The coat he wears is so voluminous and stiff that I feel the edge of his exaggerated lapels brush against my breast. He isn't aware of this, but I think it's funny.

The things I find funny get me into a lot of trouble. In this case, smiling up at Sherlock Holmes like an idiot will confirm any suspicions about me the man might have. And that's exactly what I've done.

His eyes flash(what does that even mean, they flash?). I can see in them the man who had the gumption to send a bullet into the back of a blackmailer's skull. Not a little bit terrifying. I'm glad my fingertips are so close to the plexiglass weapon in my belt.

"Now that we're alone," he begins in a hiss, stepping even closer. Now I have to tilt my chin upwards to look him in the eye. I feel the stagnant air close around my exposed jugular, but I refuse to yield. "Why don't we - clear the air between us?"

"You don't make friends easily, do you, Mr. Holmes?" I whisper. My voice is pitched lower from the odd angle I've assumed with my head. His lips part. His gaze has drifted from my eyes to somewhere around my chin, and I can feel the heat radiating from his chest. I realize I'm basically standing inside his coat. Something's not right.

"Who," he murmurs, "do you work for? Answer."

"I work," I answer in an equal tone, "for Dr. Hooper. Of course. How about you?"

He opens his mouth to speak again but the sound of the elevator call button distracts us. Distracts him. I'm expecting Dr. Hooper to call up the elevator at any moment, have been wondering what's taken her so long, and finally she does.

This brief moment of distraction, I seize. When his eyes flick up to the illuminated floor directory above us, I bolt.

My legs stretch and burn with the strain of bursting into a full-out sprint from a state of rest. The springy soles of my boots push me away from the floor; I can feel the full impact of the concrete beneath the pads of my feet, absorbing and responding. Mr. Holmes shouts for me, but my fingers have closed around the handle of the front door. I swipe my ID card and slip out onto the street.

Because of the horrid fluorescent lighting inside St. Bart's and the darkness outside, I'm invisible on the other side of the glass. I stand a few steps away from the door, hidden, observing Mr. Holmes. He walks from the elevator casually, taking the distance in long, sweeping strides that make his coat billow (why am I fixating on this coat?). He squints past me, unseeing, but we both know I'm there.

_That wasn't so hard_, I think to myself with pride, _evading the great Sherlock Holmes. Whole lotta fuss over noth-_

As the elevator door slides shut behind him and begins the climb up to Dr. Hooper's morgue, Mr. Holmes' eyes settle on something beyond the glass. I startle. It's not me, I know he isn't looking at me, the angles don't match, but my breath hitches in my chest regardless. From the direction of his gaze, I figure he must be staring at his reflected image in the mirror-like doors. Pompous ass. Only, now he's smiling. Why is he smiling?

Mr. Holmes is not a man who you want to see smiling if you've landed on the wrong side of him.

He stretches the fingers of his gloved left hand, keeping it flat by his side which draws my attention. I only count four fingers; I don't see his thumb. He's holding something.

The smile broadens into a grin.

He flicks his wrist and twirls something small and slender between his fingers. It catches the light as Mr. Holmes dangles it in front of the glass.

"Oh, fuck," I growl through clenched teeth.

Sherlock Holmes has my knife. And my fingerprints. That knife is my ID, my business card, my license plate.

Well, it looks like I'll be partaking of some breaking and entering tonight. Sorry, mom, I tried my best. Crime just seems to call me no matter what I do to avoid it.

* * *

**Okay. So before I break into 221B Baker Street** (thank you Dr. Hooper) and confirm in your eyes that I'm probably not the one you should be rooting for: I should probably explain myself.

I'm not a bad guy.

I work for bad guys, sure.

But I'm not a bad guy. In fact, I'm an equal-opportunity employer; I wouldn't mind working for the side of the angels, but they usually have a lot less to work with in terms of worldly spoils. With the devils, the sky's the limit. Which is appropriate. Because, you know, heaven.

Forget it.

My name is Jo Spark, and my real name is: Jo Spark. I'm trying to tell you I don't use an alias, but now that I've told you - yeah, nope, I don't have to kill you. Why? Because I'm so relatively insignificant in the grand scheme of things that even when I get pulled over for speeding and the cops run my record, the worst they find is shoplifting and a misdemeanor for owning a "vicious dog."

You'd be surprised how many folks living in a condominium complex in the suburbs have misdemeanors for "vicious dogs" - a lot of them have had to downsize in the economy bust of late, but they're not willing to part with their precious Fluffy, who happens to be a German Shepherd or Newfoundland or St. Bernard. Ever seen a St. Bernard try to mate with a poodle? It ain't pretty. Trust me. And, thus, "vicious dog."

Shit, we've all got urges, haven't we?

Poor puppies.

Insignificance can be quite a powerful thing in the crime world. These guys - especially the ones who work underground in London - they're remarkable. Brilliant, genius, staggeringly unlimited capabilities. Talk about learning from the masters. The man Sherlock Holmes murdered a few weeks ago, Magnussen? He was about a breath away from owning and running the world. Terrible waste. And I would have gone right along with him because I proved myself useful.

That's all I do. I prove myself useful. I stay under the radar. I maintain insignificance.

What with the intrusive nature of the media, the lack of boundaries ensured by an ever-expanding internet presence, it's very difficult to stay anonymous. Twenty years ago, most of the guys I've worked for did their errands themselves. It's not so hard to "stay out of the papers" - that had been their main source of concern. No problem: plant somebody in the press office, stalk the photographers and destroy their evidence, pay them off. Plenty of options. That was before the age of the camera phone and Instragram. Bastards can barely leave the house nowadays without getting snapped in someone's selfie, etc.

So they use me. A glorified courier. A shadow. Entirely unremarkable in appearance - average height, average weight, even features (although, with the awful buzz-job of my hair, now I'm sure to turn heads) - I am able to get in and out of hotbeds of publicity and police presence. I deliver messages. I make drops. I do recon. And, very occasionally, I'll get my hands dirty.

I mean by this, I'll break some kneecaps. Skewer a few ribs.

But nobody who didn't deserve it, I promise. Even criminals have a code of ethics, come on.

And I take it seriously, too. Even if I get laughed at, I stick to it. You know what my codename is for work? The Saint. No kidding. They think it's hilarious.

I came to London to get away. American crime has grown increasingly distasteful over the past half a century. I've studied the history, heard the stories from my father whose "business" I inherited - I come from a long line of unremarkable people. The U.K. and Ireland still has some vestige of respect for shade work, so somebody like me will fit right in.

And I have. Thanks in no small part to the fact that I secured a temp job at St. Bartholomew's in London, inches away from the chief ME for the city. I already know that building like the inside of my head: all it would take is a discrete head's up to me and I could drastically alter the identity of a corpse, erase trace evidence, plant trace evidence, you name it.

I didn't even have to advertise once I got here. People are already seeking me out. I've told them I'm on holiday for a while. Unpaid vacation. The truth is, I like Dr. Hooper too much (big mistake). I need to spend more time with her so I can start finding her and her friends annoying enough to want to cross them.

Mr. Holmes will certainly help with that.

Yeah, about him, that guy. What's his deal, do you think?

Granted, I fucked the pooch there a little bit almost killing the army doctor. Basically laid out the breadcrumbs for him to sniff up. But still - why's he got a bug up his ass about me? Most people, I've got no problem dancing around under their radar, but his I've crossed into like a deer in headlights.

Either I'm slipping, or this guy's exactly what people say he is.

I'm not slipping.

And they didn't do him right in the brief either - we have kind of an industry newsletter, a directory if you will - homeboy's got some fight in him. He's tall, lanky, and slender, sure. But Mr. Holmes has quick hands (good for blades), easy balance (good for hand-to-hand), and incredibly lean muscle-tone (good for speed and endurance).

I'd never expect him physically to measure up to the standard his intellect has set, but this ain't no schoolboy dweeb either.

Which is why I've brought the full set of mini throwing-knives with me tonight. These aren't plexiglass - they're made of incredibly strong, incredibly thin stainless steel, wrapped at the hilt with cheesecloth only enough to not slice you through when you handle them. I don't like my blades weighed down with too much protective covering, but I've suffered for this. My hands are covered in scars.

I am crouched beneath the window of 221B, standing with perfect balance (rare for me) on the scaffolding around Speedy's Cafe below the Holmes residence. Thank god for the perpetual construction in Greater London. It's very late - a little after three in the morning - but I see flickering light inside Mr. Holmes' window beyond the curtains. I think he's got a fire going.

He must be expecting me tonight, I consider. Mr. Holmes knows I won't let him hold onto that knife for long, but there's no chance he's going to turn it over to the police for investigating, either, so I know he's got it on him.

The sweet, sad whining of a violin's lullaby floats through the still, city air. He's been playing that on and off all night. A signal: I'm waiting for you, he says.

All right, Mr. Holmes. You want me? You got me.

I straighten on my perch and feel a sudden grip of fear penetrate my gut.

_I'm fast. He's faster. _

Resting my fingers on the holster-pouch of knives inside my leg, I let my heart cease its fluttering. He's spent his whole life perfecting his genius, this Mr. Holmes. Whatever self-defense he's picked up has been a secondary study. You've spent your whole life with those blades in your hand, Jo. They're an extension of your fingertips. He's fast, but you're knives are faster.

"Get a hold of yourself, Spark," I mutter, and hoist myself onto the balustrade of his window which has generous footing, thankfully.

I hear the cab turn onto Baker Street and freeze. I am incredibly exposed up here. The curtains on the other side of the glass are white and I'm wearing all black. There is absolutely no mistaking the fact that I'm staging a home invasion, once someone glances upward. I've got one thing going for me and that is utter stillness.

The cab below creeps at a mercilessly slow pace down the street and passes by Baker Street. I exhale a sigh of relief - too soon. Its red taillights illuminate as it slows and halts a few feet down the sidewalk from 221B. The passenger kicks open the door and I see the cabbie exchanging bills with the person in the back. A moment later, the passenger exits the cab.

"Oh, for the love of fucking Pete," I hiss, staring daggers (appropriately) down at Dr. Molly Hooper, in her oversized raincoat and rubber clogs. I glare inside Mr. Holmes' flat. "I bet you fucking called her, didn't you? Tool."

_Thinkthinkthink_.

Bad idea. I try to do as little of that as possible.

_Movemovemove_.

I suck in a breath and push away from the facade of the building. Grasping the poles of the scaffolding with my gloved hands, I slide easily down the side of the cafe and land silently (thank you magic boots) in the shadow of the awning. Subtly, I remove the ski-mask from my face and tuck it into my rucksack. I give myself a once-over. To anyone who knows me, I look dressed for work. Real work. To anyone else, I'm a weird chick dressed in too-tight black spandex. Passable.

I clear my throat and step out into the moonlit street just as Dr. Hooper reaches the front of 221B Baker Street. She shrieks and automatically retrieves a small can from her purse, holding it at the ready. In the panic and the dark, she depresses the aerosol and I feel the agonizing burn of pepper spray fill my vision to blindness.

_Awesome_.

* * *

**Thanks again for reading! More very soon to come. LV.**


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